by Rex Burns
Wager remembered how, as Orrin’s truck backed in a turn from the ranch, a giggling boy with bare feet and sun-white hair ran from a toolshed to jump into his father’s arms. Zenas lifted the boy high, swung him grinning across the sky, then wrapped him in both arms and nuzzled his rough beard against the boy’s ticklish neck. Their laughter carried clearly over the straining clatter of the truck.
Watching the two show their love for each other, and seeing the isolated ranch and its shelter of trees and rock, Wager realized how, with only a slight shift of assumptions, all that Zenas believed could seem normal. And he realized, too, that if avenging angels did come after them, they could drop down through the narrow gullies and crevices, suddenly raid and slaughter without discovery, and fade back into the desert canyons. No one would find the victims for weeks or even months. All in the name of God’s love.
“Lord, what a story,” said Winston half aloud. “I don’t know how much of it the cousins will let me use, but what a story when it finally breaks!”
“Why would they hide in Denver and Pueblo?” Wager waved a hand at the serried and hazy shadows that, with the sun moving behind them, had grown mysteriously dark and far away and almost cold. “Why wouldn’t they hide out here?”
“That desert’s home to all of them. It’s the first place Willis would look, and he knows that country. But a quiet house in a city surrounded by people who look no different from them … Camouflage, isn’t that what they call it?”
Wager nodded, his mind still on the man behind them and the involved web of relationships revealed by Zenas and Orrin. “Is he a younger ‘cousin’ of yours?”
“Yeah,” said Orrin. “The youngest of all. They say that’s what really killed Pa—he ran out of the alphabet with Zenas.”
CHAPTER 6
WHEN WAGER FINALLY eased the Trans-Am into the parking slot behind his Denver apartment, the ten o’clock news was on the car radio. He sat, half listening, and rubbed his fingers across his burning eyes before hauling the overnight bag out of the back seat. The news headlines were tiresomely familiar—wars and rumors of wars, homicides attempted and completed, prices rising and quality falling. He suspected he could have written the headlines before he left for the Western Slope and then simply filled in the names of people or places when he got back. Clicking off the radio, he rode in the stuffy elevator up to his apartment and spent the next five minutes opening windows and doors and chasing out air pent up for the last three days and even staler in contrast to that of the Western Slope. The answering machine sat cold and dark, no messages, but the little pile of mail wedged into the box in the lobby was full of letters trying to sell him things he didn’t want or asking for money for the things he shouldn’t have bought. One folded slip of paper had neither stamp nor address, just a hastily scrawled “Welcome back—J.”
He glanced at his watch; a bit late to try, but what the hell. He dialed Jo’s number anyway and let it ring more than the usual six times. Maybe over at her mother’s; a date, maybe. It wasn’t as if he owned her or asked her not to date anyone else. But he couldn’t help that little empty feeling as he hung up the phone and stood for a few minutes in the cool air of the balcony and listened to the rush of traffic below, a wet sound that was strangely harsh to ears that had listened to silence for the last three days. As he gazed down at the swirling lights and wondered if she was at her mother’s, it came to him that when he was mulling over all those half-formed ideas for retirement or getting the hell out of Denver, not once had he included Jo in those thoughts. As predictably as the radio news or the standard offense form, his thoughts had been peopled only by himself; perhaps it was best that way—best for her certainly, and perhaps for him, too. When isolation became that comfortable—that reflexive—perhaps it was best not to try to break it.
Rummaging through the refrigerator for a frozen dinner that would not make demands on time or taste, he slid it in the oven and then stood for a long time under the pummeling needles of a hot shower. What he really wanted was sleep, but he went on duty in less than two hours. A shower and shave would have to do instead. What the hell, it wasn’t the first time.
He arrived at the division offices just before midnight. Munn belched and asked sourly, “You had some time off?”
“Special assignment. Anything going?”
“Same old shit.” He tossed a list of addresses to Wager, locations where statistics said crimes were likely and patrols—marked and unmarked—were to be increased. “Had an officer shot at over near Bayoud and Raritan. No suspects. I don’t know what Max has got. He never gets here early.” Another belch. “Golding’s my partner on this shift. He’s out eating supper, for Christ’s sake. Mexican food. I wish to hell I had a special assignment to get me away from this goddamn place.”
“Take the rest of the day off.”
“Big deal—ten minutes.” But his hand was already pulling the door closed as he said it.
Wager poured the watch’s first cup of coffee from the stained Silex and settled to his desk and its stack of unopened mail. Most of it was junk, a different version of the crap that came to his apartment. But, like idle conversation used to pass the hours of a boring tour of duty, most of the pieces of paper asked conventional questions and called for conventional answers. He threw away the ads for a new kind of quick-release holster manufactured by a Hollywood supply company, for the Brotherhood of Peace Officers insurance package, for a complete set of study manuals with practice examinations for all grades of law enforcement. He tried to concentrate on the requests for information concerning this or that missing person described as “last seen wearing”—sometimes they turned up in the morgue. Mostly juveniles, male and female, though there seemed to be an increasing number of middle-aged women. Statistics would come out with that discovery one of these days and send a circular around on it. Half a dozen other notices on unsolved homicides, with their characteristics. But no more angels. FBI alerts to the following armed and dangerous criminals believed to be approaching or in your vicinity. Memos on procedure changes, saturation areas, special directions for the uniformed watch that plain clothes should be alerted to … Wager made a strong effort to focus his attention, but even as he stared at the familiar papers and their familiar phrases, he felt a ludicrous sense of the distance between himself sitting here and himself this afternoon sitting in Winston’s truck as it labored up the steep walls of the benchland. It did not seem possible that such divergent geographies and times could be within hours of each other; that this, the electronic world of Denver, was unfelt by those on the other side of the mountains. But why not? Winston and all his cousins had existed over there for a long time, and Wager had never heard of them, either. Would still exist unperceived, except for the avenging angels. It was as if time had moved at a different speed for them. But was their life really that different? Wager, sitting here surrounded by the mechanically printed data of electronic surveillance and retrieval, the automatic copies of in-house communications, the glowing screens and printouts of “processed” words, was still dealing with the same timeless fears and hatreds that were found on both sides of those mountains. The deeper currents of life were the same in all places and all times; and, in one guise or another, avenging angels were with us always. The trick was to catch them.
“Evening, Gabe.” Max, his own memos and notices a small wad in his fist, greeted Wager as always. “Good trip?” And at Wager’s nod, “I went around to most of the Mormon churches. Nobody recognized those two John Does.”
“I’m not surprised.” He waited until Max was seated at his desk and leafing through papers before adding, “But I got positive i.d.’s and a local address.”
“What?”
He said it again.
“Jesus, Gabe, why didn’t you call it in?”
“I wasn’t near a phone until late this afternoon, and I was on my way back anyhow.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. “What time did you get in?”
“Couple hours ag
o.”
The large head wagged once, a mixture of wonder and resignation. There was no sense trying to coax Wager to take the day off; Max had seen him do this too many times and knew what the answer would be. Still, he couldn’t help hinting: “There’s not a damn thing new since you’ve been gone. A couple weapons fired; no deaths. There’s nothing I can’t handle by myself.”
Wager tossed another handful of paper into the trash. “I’m all right.”
Max sighed. “Okay. So who are the victims, and why the angels?”
When Wager finished, Max gave that mostly silent whistle between his teeth that told Wager he was turning each fact over and fitting the pieces against one another in different ways. “You went by the Beauchamp address already.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes. No answer. No lights.”
“Yeah—they probably ran as soon as they read Beauchamp’s description in the papers.” Then, “That explains why we have no missing persons on him. They were too afraid to even claim the body.”
“And no government records of any kind. They don’t join anything,” said Wager.
The little whistle. “It’s a closed subculture, isn’t it? It shares space with the dominant culture, but it doesn’t live off it, and it doesn’t mix with it. It’s actually invisible.”
Wager shifted uncomfortably; once in a while, Max slipped into that college sociology bullshit. “Except when they kill somebody.”
“Right. The one they found in Loma Vista, he’s part of this same group?”
“Mueller. I don’t think so. I can’t figure how he ties to Beauchamp. Not yet, anyway.”
“Maybe he knew something. Or saw someone.”
That was possible, and Wager had already thought of it. But those were just two more of a number of possibilities at that end of the case, and none of them seemed to pull the facts together. Wager drained his cup and drew out the manila file labeled John Doe #17. He rummaged through the tangle of forms and slips and paper clips in his desk drawer for a roll of gummed labels. When he was finished, the folder read “Beauchamp, Ervil” and held a half-page synopsis of what Wager had found out so far. He wedged it back into the full tray of active cases and slid the drawer shut. For the rest of the night, Wager and Max would deal with the kind of violence they were at home with: the logical insanity of East Colfax and Capitol Hill. Tomorrow he could focus on the more exotic kind, which had splashed over from Loma Vista.
In the morning light the Beauchamp house looked as empty as it had last night. Wager, unsuccessfully fighting off a yawn that made his jaw crack, spent a few seconds looking at the house before knocking once more at the door. It was, like its neighbors, a tract house with the look of the late ‘50s—square, small entry porch centered in a wall of Masonite siding, one story with a low roof of asphalt shingles, full basement, whose windows peeped above metal wells along the foundation. A patched sidewalk evenly divided the small square of lawn, which was shaggy and brown in spots. At each side, he could glimpse a chain link fence, masked by tall lilac bushes, which sealed off the backyard. The curtains, drawn across the picture window, didn’t move, and no one answered his knock.
He walked around to the fence and peered through the lilac leaves into the backyard. There the grass was worn to gray dirt by traffic, and a well-used swing set hung idle among a brightly colored scattering of toy trucks and plastic shovels and pails. No sound came from the large yard or the house.
It was six of one and half a dozen of the other; Wager’s mental coin came down tails and he headed for the house on the left. A woman in her midtwenties, with brown eyes and cropped, bleached hair, half opened the door. If Wager had not been so tired he might have been a little more subtle; the Bulldog liked his officers to speak softly and carry a low profile when dealing with Joan Q. Public. But Wager’s baggy eyes felt as bristly as his unshaven jaw, and the wariness in the woman’s expression as she faced this scruffy figure led his hand to his badge case. “Detective Wager, ma’am. Denver Police. I’d like to ask you some questions about the folks next door.”
Her name was Cheryl Johnson and she hadn’t seen anybody at the Wilsons’ house for—oh, at least a week now. Not that she knows them that well—they seemed to stay pretty much to themselves ever since they moved in almost a year back. Renters. They don’t own the house, she knows that, because it had been for sale for a long time before a real estate agency finally bought it and put up a rental sign and the Wilsons came just after that. She’s sure they got it pretty cheap and she’s often wondered if that wasn’t the best way—rent instead of buy. You don’t build up equity, but you don’t have all the worry about taxes and upkeep, either, and if you’re just starting out and don’t intend to stay in a neighborhood anyway …
“Yes, ma’am. Can you tell me anything about the Wilsons?”
Well they always have a whole houseful of people, she knows that, and she has no idea where everybody sleeps. They have relatives visiting all the time—Mrs. Wilson’s two sisters and all their kids. A half-dozen of all ages, but they are real nice and polite, even if they didn’t join the neighborhood walkathon for the March of Dimes. They take real good care of the house, which a lot of renters don’t do. Her kids play with them sometimes, but the Wilsons never leave their yard. Shy—except when they think no one is looking, and then they have their share of fussing and fighting just like everybody else. The oldest Wilson girl baby-sits and she’s real good with kids and real friendly. But she never talks much about herself—you can ask all sorts of questions and she’ll just nod or smile and never give you a straight answer. Shy. And she seems kind of—well—out of touch. Like the way she admires Mrs. Johnson’s dresses and shoes, which aren’t all that stylish; not dowdy, you know, but good quality, and good gracious the cost of clothes these days, and most of them not worth half what you pay for them. Anyway, Naomi Wilson, that’s the girl’s name, is real good with kids, especially little ones, even if she acts like she never saw any clothes other than the cotton things with sleeves that she wears like they were taken in to fit her. But if that’s so, then somebody in that house is a good seamstress because the stitching’s just as straight as a tailor’s; but you know, Naomi never even uses makeup. Now that’s something Mrs. Johnson hadn’t really thought of before, but here’s a teenage girl who’s never even tried lipstick, and wouldn’t you think that in this day and age…
“Yes, ma’am. Can you tell me anything about Mr. Wilson?”
Mr. Wilson is an appliance repairman somewhere, and he must make pretty good money to feed that bunch for as long as they’ve stayed. But except for Mrs. Wilson’s sisters, they never have any visitors of any kind that she, Cheryl Johnson, can see. Not that she’s nosy enough to care, but living right next door like this on a short street, you get to recognize everybody’s car, and when a new one parks at the curb, you know it right away. Like yours—when you pulled up, it was a strange car, and I said to myself, that’s some kind of official car, the way it’s painted so plain and ugly like that.
“Yes, ma’am. Is this Mr. Wilson?” He showed her the touched-up photograph of the corpse.
“It seems a lot like him, but he’s not as old as that picture makes him look. In fact that picture makes him look—oh my God, is he dead?”
“Yes, ma’am. Did the Wilsons ever say anything about maybe moving somewhere? Maybe going somewhere else?”
“Dead? My God! I mean, it’s not like he’s a friend, but he always says good morning, and my God! How did it happen?”
“He was shot, ma’am. Anything at all about where they came from, or any names of friends they mentioned?”
“Shot? Oh my God!”
It took Wager another quarter-hour to find out that Mrs. Johnson didn’t know what the world was coming to when a nice, polite man like Mr. Wilson, who never harmed anybody and minded his own business, could be shot down like that, and what was he—Detective Wager—doing to help make the streets safe? Did he know that she was getting afraid to even walk around t
he block at night because of all the terrible things that were happening? Shootings. Rapes. Assaults for no reason. Something had to be done, and now that nice Mr. Wilson. What about her children? What kind of world would they be faced with if things kept going the way they were?
“Yes, ma’am. Any kind of address or even just mentioning a town or city?”
No, the family next door never said a word about going anywhere. They were just gone, like that, as quick as they came. My God that poor Mrs. Wilson and her children.
Wager sat in his car, radio off and windows rolled up, to enjoy a couple minutes of silence. Now his ears felt as worn and grainy as his eyes, and beneath the weariness he felt the start of one of those dull headaches that come from too little sleep and no breakfast. And too much housewife’s mouth. Switching on the transmitter, and aware of the gap in Mrs. Johnson’s curtains, he called in for a search warrant for the Beauchamp/Wilson address; a few minutes later the dispatcher informed him that one had been signed and duly recorded. Did he need a copy of it? Did he need Technical Assistance?
“No,” said Wager, “just authorization.” He still had the little tool of hooked and rippling blades that had come in so handy when he was in the narcotics section, and that would make the Bulldog very uneasy if he found out about it. So Wager didn’t tell him.
The front door had a deadbolt lock newly cut into the wood above the original door handle, which had its own lock. It took him two or three minutes’ tinkering before the last tumbler was finally lifted and held in place so he could turn the mechanism. The door-handle latch took half a second with the flat blade. The moment the door swung in, a puff of odor and the sound of busy flies told him that the Beauchamp /Wilson tribe was still at home.